Kiznaiver X Goth Reader
by Ladybug Mecha
Summary: As a goth just trying to survive at a new school, how will you cope with the supernatural? Never mind, it's actually just the shady government.


Author's Note: For this story, Reader is Gender Neutral, meaning that they can be any gender you want them to be! This story is for everyone! Have fun!

* * *

You were goth. It wasn't a phase. It was just who you were. You had been bullied on multiple occasions for being goth, though. The oppression all the kids were pondering upon and theorizing about? You lived it. It was your life. It definitely was no walk in the park. You weren't even being emotional or whining about the state of the world or anything—that was for posers. You were just stating a fact: being bullied was objectively no fun.

That was why when you started at this new school in Sugomori City, so very far away from your last school yet uncomfortably close in the grand scheme of things, you were understandably nervous. You didn't show that you were nervous, though. Showing emotions was for posers and fake girls who wore pink flannel shirts and boobie implants. You weren't judgmental, though. Being judgmental was something posers did. And you weren't that.

You arrive on the Sugomori High School campus and take a look around. It's one of the most architecturally sound buildings you've ever come across, and the hedges and grass surrounding it are trimmed up to pristine condition. It isn't boring-looking either—the high school, you mean. But because you're goth, it is. It's quite possibly the most boring thing you've ever seen.

Before school starts you keep to yourself largely, not because being friendly is for posers, but because people-watching is even more goth than making friends before your first class even starts—and making friends before your first class even starts is pretty dang goth. You keep your eyes on different people, but none really seem as goth as you sadly. You get up, pull your bag over your shoulder, and leave to go inside.

For your first class (homeroom), you sit down in the second row of desks nearest to the window (goths don't use the door in the event of a fire breaking out). You place your My Melody x Kuromi lunch bag (please don't judge; your mom bought it for you, and you love your mom) dead-center of the top of your desk surface and take your seat a comfortable four minutes before class is supposed to start, as being late to class or "just on time" is a pretty preppy thing to do.

As your homeroom teacher, Mr. Yamada, swaggers into the classroom and begins to greet the students in what appears to be a typical fashion, he seems to notice/remember that you are there. You groan inwardly. In a matter of seconds, he has you at the front of the classroom, scrawling the spelling of your name across the board, because everyone knows that a goth can't write too neatly.

You turn around after placing the dry erase marker down and give the basic introduction: "My name is [Firstname] [Lastname]. It's written how you see here. I'm from [City/Town/etc]." All of their expectant eyes on you make you cringe; but you don't cringe too hard. You don't really care about how they perceive you, after all. "It's uh... nice, to meet you all."

You take a bow, and then take your seat. The half of the classroom that you're not seated on erupts into whispers, and your half remains silent. Silence. Good. It appears that you chose the correct side of the classroom to conduct your studies indeed.

After taking attendance, Yamada starts teaching—except it doesn't really sound like teaching, it sounds more like perverted babbling. You look about the room boredly. Some are sarcastically taking avid notes, and others are already sleeping. The person directly beside you is quietly munching chips and every time he chews you hear the sound of his molars grinding against some thick wad of rubbery candy lodged in the side of his mouth. It doesn't disgust you. Nothing disgusts you, because you don't particularly care about anything as a goth.

 _"Psst. Psst, [L/N]."_

Not even two seconds after you pull out your ancient hardcover edition of Bram Stoker's _Dracula_ and remove the bookmark, someone's _psst_ -ing at you. You close the book gently, and lay it on the desk in front of you with an equally gentle scoff. You wonder who it is—and, more importantly, what they want.

 _"Do you have a no. 2 pencil?"_ They ask, whispering loudly. _"Mine broke."_

Lo and behold, it's the guy next to you.

With signature bored expression on your face, you turn in your seat to face him. He's actually... incredibly tall. And big. But the first thing you notice about him, believe it or not, is that absolutely gigantic shock of spiky pink hair on the top of his head. It looks like a rooster and a flamingo somehow had a baby, and that baby started to take form on the top of this guy's head and then, freak of nature that it was, gave up halfway through and collapsed in a fluffy heap. It's truly something, in the way that exhibits at the dingy local museum are "something." Not only that, but pink is a preppy color. But, surprisingly, it actually doesn't come across as _terribly_ preppy on him.

 _A no. 2 pencil?_ You mentally comment, backtracking. _What year is this, 1970?_

Instead, you wordlessly reach into your bag and grab a black pen. You hand it to him, your glossy black-painted fingernails glimmering under the fluorescent classroom light.

Apparently, your unwavering silence causes the strange little pink-haired man to go full awkward, but he takes the pen gratefully nonetheless with a little grin and a "T-Thanks, man."

That's when you realize that Yamada actually _had_ begun teaching quite some time ago, and you were the only one who didn't have any kind of supplies out. Instead of hurrying, you just absolutely drag your feet as you take out your plain black binder and flip to a blank sheet of notebook paper.

* * *

"Yo... [L/N]. What's [city you're from] like?"

It's lunch time. You're eating your usual sandwich quietly when you hear the guy next to you address you again. He's smiling at you as you look at his desk out of the corner of your peripherals and catch sight of some ungodly spread of three onigiri, a 16 oz thing of bottled juice, a five-serving bag of Hot Cheetos, and some kind of random yogurt drink. _Um, okay, cool._ This guy has already proven himself not to be entirely human, you note, so this kind of lunch is probably the norm for him.

"You... eat a lot," you comment warily, instead of answering his question. "What's your _gastrointestinal system_ like?"

"Uh..." He blinks for a second, looking puzzled with that smile more or less still on his face. It then turns into an energetic grin. "My intestines are healthy, just like me!" He digs a confident thumb into his chest. "What about _you?_ Is that _sad, sheisty_ little sandwich _all_ you're eating? No wonder you look so pale, bro!"

"I'm not pale," you deadpan back. "This is my natural skin color." _Plus makeup, to make me look a little bit more pale._ "Also, I'm not your 'bro.' I'm nobody's 'bro.' I-"

"What _ever,_ " he snorts, cutting you off. One of his fingers points rudely at your food. "I still say _that_ ain't enough. You might just grow up to be a shrimp, you know!"

"No, I _don't_ know." You sigh out of boredom at this entire exchange. "And by the looks of it, neither do you."

Judging by his lack of reply, the comment on the pink-haired boy's size and muscular physique seems to fly clean over his head. Your eyelids droop at the guy's apparent cluelessness, but you take the awkward silence as an opportunity to return to your own business. Business which may or may not include a little bit more of Mr. Bram Stoker over here...

"Hey, what's your given name again?" He asks.

This guy never takes a break, does he? You _would_ rub your temples out of aggravation, but you don't. That would make you look too preppy, after all. Instead, you make sure your voice is flat, like a paper-thin pancake. Then you "repeat" your "given name" for him:

" _Bofa._ " You flip him off.

"Ohhh! Nice one!" Not missing a beat, he reaches out and taps you on the shoulder playfully. "Eyy, [L/N], can I call you Bofa instead of your family name?"

You can't help it at that point. Your eyes widen at his utter cluelessness. "No!" You snap, as if it should be obvious. While you're at it, you pointedly grimace at the hand on your shoulder. He quickly removes it.

"Jeez, my bad," you swear you hear him mutter, " _Touchy._ "

 _No, that's what_ you _are,_ you reply. Fortunately for him, though, the reply is only internal.

At least you can safely assume that he was probably joking. About the calling you by your given name thing, you mean. You open up your book. Eyes glued to the page, you add, "What's _your_ name?"

"Hmm~? _My_ name?" You see him get this smirky look out of the corner of your eye, and it makes you want to bash your head into the desk for some reason. It's not cool. Good thing Cool is not Goth.

" _I'm_ Hajime Tenga," Hajime Tenga says, then he pauses for a second. "Hah, why! You wanna exchange our _e-mails_ next or something?"

"Pff," you reply quietly, turning the page of your book.

After a few little hesitant noises from him, Tenga finally leaves you well enough alone. You note that it's awfully quiet for the rest of the lunch period.

* * *

The remainder of your day is uneventful. And boring.

No one else approaches you; in fact, it seems as if people are actively _avoiding_ you now. You think nothing of it; honestly, being ignored is a welcome change, as opposed to your less-than-favorable experiences at your _last_ few schools. You deftly pack up your things, departing from the school premises to embark upon the first stretch of the all-too-long walk home through the sweltering summer heat.

Little do you know, it would actually be your _second_ day at Sugomori High School that would be the one which would change your whole life forever... But even such a blatant teaser sounds markedly boring to you.


End file.
